


A Foolish Dream

by JulieTulips



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Parent Bilbo Baggins, Teen Angst, teenage frodo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulieTulips/pseuds/JulieTulips
Summary: Just a little bit of fun. Tweenage Frodo comes home late one night and has to deal with the repercussions as Bilbo discovers he isn't quite the blue-eyed little boy anymore. Oneshot. I wish I owned LOTR, but I do not. PLEASE REVIEW! Movie-Verse for ages.





	A Foolish Dream

Frodo crept silently up the side of the house. The tweenager’s form pressed itself against the smooth rock holding the earthy roof from caving into Bag End; his furry feet stepped carefully around Sam’s prized radishes as his face ducked into the shadows of the nighttime garden. The round sitting-room window was so close… he could just about reach it, and then he could duck into bed and pretend he’d been right there all along, and the old hobbit must’ve simply dozed off. The slim fingers snaked softly onto the wooden rim as his toes searched the ground for a vegetable-free purchase. Finally, managing to cram his foot in between two rows of fat, moist lettuce (at the feeling of which his face contorted into a slight grimace, as he preferred not to have wet vegetables skimming his ankles) Frodo pushed himself up on his elbows, toppling himself silently into the sitting room. Only a single candle was lit amongst the debris, surrounded with Bilbo’s usual mess of scrolls, tea-cups and maps on a tiny, rickety coffee-table holding much more than it should. He took a careful step forward, then another, the blue eyes skimming the perimeter to find nothing but mess and shadows. The round hallway entrance beckoned him with a welcoming, velvety darkness – if he could just reach it -   
“Frodo Baggins!”  
The twenty-five-year-old hobbit jumped, tripping ever-so-eloquently backwards into a pile of rubbish. There was a loud crash. The next thing Frodo knew, he was on the floor, his back being painfully pierced by the sturdy angles of a wooden chair and set of fireplace pokers while he himself was littered with paper, quills, spilled ink, half a broken vase and grain salt. He blinked his eyes open as he slowly pushed himself into a standing position, careful not to let any pesky white powder anywhere near his face. “What in Middle – “  
Several more candles were lit, now. “You had me worried sick, Frodo, where have you been?!” Bilbo glared at him with his arms crossed. “Going to the market with Sam does not entail – “ He grabbed Frodo by the wrist, pulling him out of the debris to meet his eye level –“returning home three hours past nightfall and sneaking into the – have you been drinking, Frodo? Not that a hobbit your age can’t, but – you need to tell – you can’t just go wandering off wherever you – “ Frodo doubted he’d seen Bilbo this way since the mushroom-stealing incident a decade prior.  
Frodo raised his hands in defeat, the possibility of suddenly being faced with a sword not so strange to him in that moment after all. “We did go to market, but – but then Merry and Pippin turned up, and Sam – Sam said we’d better be getting home to bring the seeds to the Gaffer but then Merry said he’d heard it would be a real good night at the Dragon, and a couple lads from Bree would come, they said! I couldn’t say no to that now, could I, and then Sam said that if that was the case he’d better come too, make sure we didn’t get into any sort of trouble, only – well – Rosie Cotton was there, so he got just a tiny little bit distracted, and – oh, Bilbo, don’t tell the Gaffer, it’s not Sam’s fault, I’ll wash the dishes in the morning if you don’t!”  
Bilbo’s gaze did not soften at this. “You’ll be washing the dishes tomorrow, all day, regardless, Frodo Baggins.”  
Frodo sighed. This was just brilliant. “Well,” He finished sheepishly, “We, uh… got a bit carried away, see. Then I said, ‘We’d better be getting home, now. Bilbo’s probably so worried, and I’d hate to worry the old fellow, for I love him so very dearly – “  
“Hmmph,” was Bilbo’s reply to Frodo’s tipsy attempts at redemption. The old hobbit raised his eyebrows. “You know, I never once put my parents through such bitter nonsense.”  
Even under the influence of a fair few ales, Frodo was not stupid enough to argue the matter.  
“You – “ Bilbo sat Frodo down on a stool – “You could’ve been lost. The Shire might be safe, but the Forest most certainly isn’t, and the river – “  
Frodo sighed. “Uncle, I haven’t drunk nearly enough to go swimming after supper-time. You know I haven’t.”  
Bilbo sighed. It’s not like anything could have truly happened to the young hobbit; there was no safer place than the Shire, and even so, Frodo did at the very least have a head on his shoulders. And yet…  
“What’s that in your hand, Frodo?” Bilbo suddenly asked with a slight frown.  
“What –“ Frodo quickly shoved the offending parchment in his pocket with a flare of his pale cheeks. “Nothing – “  
Now, Bilbo hadn’t been chosen as a burglar for nothing. A second’s commotion and the flimsy paper was in Bilbo’s hand with a fully-chastised-looking Frodo in front of him. “No, Uncle, please don’t –“  
It was unfolded by the meager candlelight.  
“My dear Pervinca,   
It is a bitter shame for such a pretty lass to be sitting alone on this fine evening, for even the flickering stars reflected in your eyes have company. Hair of such beautiful honey should spin through a merry inn in dance, and rosy cheeks should flush delicately with exhaltation; yet the lass I see before me prefers to sit shyly in a corner, ignoring jeers of drunken hobbit-lads and stomping of feet as they beg for more ale. I dream a foolish dream, lady Took, where you might emerge from that sunken softness and take my hand as we –“  
“That is private, Bilbo!” Frodo now cried, trying to tear the paper from the older hobbit. Bilbo simply held it higher now, truly enjoying the experience, craning his neck as he continued to read – “  
“as we turn their heads to envy in a flutter of dance; a fair lass with a humble lad desiring nothing more than to be – “  
“BILBO!”  
“Smitten with her presence.” Bilbo smiled, his anger quite forgotten. “You know, Frodo, this is not quite what I meant when I suggested you take an interest in poetry. Oh, there’s a response on the back! ‘Dearest Frodo, I should desire nothing more. This is a dreary evening, but perhaps you could rescue a maiden trapped within the confines of boredom. I do remember your gentle lead across the dance floor, and the wonder in your blue eyes. Frodo, let us make this night an eternity and take me in your arms. Your lips – “  
Frodo tore the sheet from Bilbo’s grasp and tore it to shreds, blushing brighter than the Gaffer’s prize tomatoes. The old hobbit raised an eyebrow.  
“It didn’t get to that,” The raven-haired youth muttered, staring at the floor. Perhaps he could bury himself in the pile of debris filling the living room – that would be very nice indeed. Or perhaps it would swallow him. “We only danced.”  
Bilbo didn’t quite know what to say to this. It had been quite a while since he himself had courted any hobbit-lass, and an eternity since he had written a love-letter. “Well-“ He began, soon falling again into silence. He scratched behind one pointy ear, which wiggled a little before settling again into the greying curls. “Well, er…”  
Frodo took his chance and bolted. Before Bilbo could utter another word, the second bedroom’s door closed with a bang. Springs groaned as Frodo jumped into bed.  
Bilbo stood for a while, staring out the window, dumbfounded, a shred of note still in his hand. Seemed only yesterday the boy had been playing soldiers in the garden and turning his nose at the mention of ale and lasses… The stars were, indeed, quite beautiful that night, and the candle-light warmed the corners of his eyes as he looked out towards the Road. If he looked hard enough, he could almost make out a hobbit running down the gravel path, flapping his arms about, his copper hair rushing with the wind. The lad was late – quite late – and he was going on an adventure.   
Bilbo downcast his eyes, blowing out the candle. The smoke trailed into the open window, over the lawn. His old eyes were finally playing tricks on him, Bilbo decided: for the young lad’s hair turned black as the flapping run turned to one of danger and foreboding; blue eyes twinkled in the starlight as the boy slipped a golden ring into his pocket. Then the wind blew, and the front garden was empty.


End file.
